


Laugh of the Hyena

by alyxpoe



Category: Original Work
Genre: Crime, F/M, Hemlock and Walson the dogs, Science, Serial Killer, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-20
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 03:25:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyxpoe/pseuds/alyxpoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An unusual serial killer shows up in a quiet little town on the edge of Nowheresville. How can it be stopped?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In for Nasty Weather

**Author's Note:**

> Frankly, posting *this* for people to read is utterly terrifying. It was my Na-No entry for 2013.  
> Much to my horror, I opened the file to find it missing the last 20,000 words. I am going to post it here in order to push myself to finish it (again), so please enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note: if the chapter has a title, then I have finished polishing it (for now.) If not, you are still reading the raw first draft. 
> 
> **Lyrics to 'I Gotta Feeling' (C) The Black-eyed Peas. Only quoted here, it does not belong to me in any form or fashion. Just an upbeat song that I thought would be playing in the club.

 

 

 

 

 

_Hope you got your things together._   
_Hope you are quite prepared to die._   
_Looks like we're in for nasty weather._

 

_Bad Moon Rising-written & (C) by John Fogerty  
_

> > __  
**Chapter One: In for Nasty Weather  
**

The well-dressed predator sits at the bar, impersonating a human, stiff back toward the room, watching the reflection of the sheep mingling about the crowded place in the hazy mirror behind the bartender. The place reeks of sweat and pheromones and fucking _desperation_. Dance floor on the left, entryway on the right. The place is an undulating river of humanity from door to bar; it would be disconcerting to anyone else. Not the Hyena, though; the predator is above the sheep. The sheep have one purpose and that purpose is to satiate the hunter, to fulfill all of the hunter’s desires.

" _I know that we'll have a ball_

_If we get down and go out and lose it all._

_I feel stressed out, I wanna let it go..."**_

The Hyena is hungry, wanting, _needy_. Above the scum that are only here to find a warm hole to shove some part of themselves into for an hour or possibly for the night. Too many of them will wake up with another sheep that they never want to see again. Dark eyes peer out from behind tonight’s mask, scanning the room with ruthless precision. The ordered drink sits on the bar sweating in the rapidly warming room:  water droplets sliding down the glass, gently cascading to the highly polished wooden bar to make a tiny puddle around the bottom of it that reflects the mood lighting throughout the entire place. It is no more than camouflage. The beer is too dark, anyway, and besides, it dulls the senses. The thumping of the bass and the slight hum from the slowly dying sub-woofers is enough to make even the Hyena feel dull and stupid.

A hunter needs all of their senses in the present, in the moment, _now_.

" _I've gotta feeling that tonight's gonna be a good, good night..."**_

One of the aforementioned warm bodies is standing behind the Hyena. The dog-like creature normally buried deep inside lifts up its head and sniffs the air. This will be a good one. The creature’s elegant fangs gnash against each other inside bone-cracking jaws. The scent of prey is always so wonderful; the scent of freshly-spilled blood brings about a thrumming, trembling _need_ not unlike that being experienced by those on the dance floor.

The need is eloquent; it has its own voices. The Hyena slips back into humanity and turns to the warm body just behind it; a wide smile, a slight tilt of the head and the prey falls for one of the oldest tricks in the book. Lay a hand on an arm, stroke gently with the fingers, pretend to guzzle the alcoholic beverage. It is going to be a good kill, tonight; it has been too long; since the last one...

The Hyena begins to slip a little; the physical body begins to tremble. It gasps for breathe and the greyness starts to creep into the edges of its vision; top predator begins to lose its grip.

Stop!

 _Stay in the moment_ , the Hyena reminds its host.

No need to think about that one tonight. Focus on the noises coming out of the mouth of the prey. Step close, make physical demands known. The prey is receptive. Another tired old line about finding somewhere quieter to spend some time. Step out into an alley, feel the fucking thrill. Prey needs to be reminded who the master really is, get prey on knees, make them beg for it. Laugh a little; know that being at the top of the Food Chain is always preferable to being on the bottom. The bottom is reserved for the sludge eaters, the scavengers, the evolutionary back roads. Not the Hyena.

The Hyena is perfect: the balance between ruthless killer and opportunist held in strong fangs.

The Hyena is hungry. The Prey struggles only a little against the Hyena’s groin. It feels good; perhaps let the human side finish before making the kill; maybe at the same time. Chocolatey-sweet brain chemicals wash over the Hyena as the prey completes its usefulness; the blade is drawn in a smooth arc, pocket to prey. Blood spurts high into the clammy air of midsummer night, the Hyena laughs and another stupid sheep is put out of its misery. It holds the dying sheep's head back to allow the blood to pulse free from the precise wound as its heart takes its last beat.The Hyena laps at the blood on its paws, lays the prey down on its back and begins the customary display. The sheep did not struggle; the pigs will find no other markings than the very finely slit throat.

The kill is also eloquent; it speaks to the Hyena in the animal’s own language: I can take it _all_.

The greyness that threatened earlier now recedes to cream and vanilla. The Hyena slips into unconsciousness, safe in knowing that everything will be taken care of.

*******

Melia Hutchinson is woken every single day of the week at precisely seven AM by her dogs, and today is no different from any other. She smiles as the pair of them jump up onto the bed in an attempt to get their faces as close to hers as possible. She pats furry heads: one older, sometimes crotchety gray bulldog and also a rather coarse-haired lean black hound mix of some type or another who is at this moment rolling on his back to try and get a belly scratch. Melia grins at her boys and shoos them off the bed in the typical daily tradition then she pads across the carpeted floor to the small bathroom where she showers.

Melia pulls open the curtain to find both dogs waiting patiently in the doorway. The bulldog is sitting neatly, his leash at his feet. The hound is lying beside the bulldog, his leash dangling limply between his teeth. Melia laughs again as she passes by them back into her room to get dressed for the first time today. She pulls on her tennis shoes, ties them and whistles for the dogs, which then drop their leashes on the floor and sit quietly near her, waiting. The three of them head out the front door, ready for a brisk walk before Melia has to go into work.

As they walk, Melia calls hello to several neighbors, mostly retired seniors; though some call their own greetings out to her. Most of the people around here know the quiet girl and her dogs well, enough that she has even been invited to several of the block parties, but not so well that people drop by unannounced. She waves at Mrs. Parker who is out tending her rosebushes this fine June morning in a pristine flowery spring dress. Mrs. Parker's house is a well-maintained, white-trimmed cookie-cutter copy of the majority of the neighborhood.

The neighborhood is all so very well-groomed, just like Mrs. Parker’s roses. The sidewalks are clean from last night’s short burst of rain, everyone’s lawns are neatly styled, even the cars driving by seem to be particularly sparkly today. Melia hums a little under her breath as she and the dogs enjoy their walk. Mr. Blanchard stops her as she is returning home, gives both dogs a pat and then holds out a rather battered leather-bound book.

Melia is part of the local book club that meets on Wednesday nights, so it is no surprise that the old man with the snow white hair is giving her this particular volume. It is one of his favorites, and he said as much at last week’s meeting. He and his wife, Louise, are going up to Michigan next week, so he is lending her his copy. She flips it over in her very occupied hands, smiling when she sees the fifty year old inscription from Louise to her groom written in a very precise hand on the inside of the front cover. She inhales the wonderful scent that only comes from old, well-loved tomes as she reads:

 

 

> _My love, may the joy of words_
> 
> _forever illuminate your mind_
> 
> _the way the peace of your saffron aura_
> 
> _illuminates my heart._
> 
> _-Forever,_
> 
> _Louise Peal_

"That book has been around, Melia. It got me through some pretty dark nights even when we were getting shot at by the VCs. There was never much time to read...but I think you understand." Mr. Blanchard smiles softly, though his expression seems torn between both the painful and the pleasant memories of a time that people of Melia's generation can only begin to understand. 

“Thank you, Mr. Blanchard.” She beams up at him and the old man’s eyes gleam just a little brighter when she graces him with a peck on the cheek. Of course, at that moment, the big black hound mix decides that the squirrel across the street needs to be chased and Melia is forced to either keep the book from hitting the sidewalk or letting go the hound. She does the smart thing and calls after the dog, “Hemlock!” Mr. Blanchard laughs as does three or four of the other neighbors; they have all emerged from their little houses to take advantage of the morning's mild weather. The bulldog at her side whines a little.

“Go ahead, Melia, let him have a little run.” Mr. Blanchard pats her lightly between the shoulders so she shrugs and lets the dog off the leash to follow his companion. She pretends to study the way their copper ID tags bounce jauntily against their necks and reflects the warm golden sunshine back at everyone who watches Hemlock tree the squirrel. The big black mutt now stands with his paws on the trunk of Mrs. Reese’s huge old oak while the rolly-polly bulldog plants himself at the base with the world-weary look known to everyone with friends and family about the globe.

Melia jogs up to her dogs, a silly grin on her face. “Ah, poor Walson, Hemlock left you in the dust again, didn’t he?” She coos a little as she pets the bulldog’s head.  His tongue lolls out of his mouth and he looks completely disgusted with the whole squirrel event.  Melia grabs the ends of both leashes, thanks Mr. Blanchard again and walks home, the worn copy of _Moby Dick_ tucked under her arm for safe keeping.

***

Melia sits reading Mr. Blanchard’s book in the quiet staffroom where she eats her solitary lunch. One of the drawbacks to being a lab geek is that you only get a break when the tests are completed. For the most part, the high ups look down upon those who dare walk away from an unfinished test; apparently bad things of apocalyptic proportions happen when a test tube of blood cracks in the centrifuge. Besides the horrendous mess, that is.  She sighs and checks her watch. Might as well go back now, three minutes will not make all that much difference.

The long steel counters of the work space in the lab seem to go on forever beyond the backsides of the metal swinging doors. It is cool down here in the basement of the hospital in this large room just off the morgue.  Brad, Melia's immediate supervisor, is back in the corner settled on a three-legged stool and talking quietly into a microphone, detailing the results of the most recent of his cases. He gives her a curt little nod as she reaches back to stop the doors from slamming against one another as they close. She nods back, offering him a shy smile and moves back to the counter to complete the paperwork from her own tests from before lunch. Brad's blue eyes track her movements for a second before he returns his attention to his dictation.

Melia sits down on her tall stool, resting her boots against the lowest rung so that her knees just barely touch the underside of the table. As she works, she gnaws the end of her pen. For some reason, one set of the results she is reading makes absolutely no sense whatsoever. She sighs, thinking that she simply made an error then moves towards the back of the room to where the big refrigeration unit sits. The unit contains samples taken by the coroner or, more rarely, brought in by the local PD. She pulls a sample out of an evidence bag, quickly yanking a black Sharpie out of the pocket of her lab coat to hastily add a second set of her initials on the line to retain the chain of custody necessary in this case.

The sample is a small one and she hopes for no more errors, because there really is not enough left after this to run a third test.

Much to Melia’s irritation, the second test turns out to be exactly like the first. She shakes her head and rubs her eyes after first shoving her glasses up onto her head. Blearily, she checks the time. Brad and Angela, the other tech, left over two hours ago, and she needs to get home to the dogs. She sighs and settles down to write the report out again.

While she works, a quiet hum pervades the room as the ionizers and de-humidifiers kick on and off; there is the thump-roll of a gurney being wheeled down the hall one floor above, presumably bringing a fresh one down the elevator. There is the faint beep-beep of the keyless entry then the whooshing sound of the morgue doors being pushed open by the end of the gurney. If she listens harder, she can even make out the sound of the smaller doors being opened so that the body will remain until David, the coroner, arrives early the next morning. Melia tries not to think too much about the lonely coller the dead person is now resting in, because it makes her think about what it means to be _so alone_ ; instead she pulls herself back to her current project.

After another forty minutes, Melia stretches and signs the bottom of the report with a flourish. She carries it to Brad's cluttered desk and deposits the irritating thing in the basket marked for this purpose with a huff no one else will hear. She makes her way out of the lab, the solidly empty echo of her boot heels against the dull tile floor the only sound that remains after she gently closes the door behind her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

> **Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 22 2014, a few minor edits made.  
> March 23, 2014, a few more minor edits made because I am ridiculously picky.


	2. Dreams Alone

 

 

 

>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _The truth, oh it's there for you to see  
>  Sometimes it's painful to be on your own, on your own-_
> 
> _I'll See You in My Dreams (C) Giant  
> _

 

**Chapter Two: Dreams Alone  
**

Sometimes the dreams are enough. Sometimes the memories that are played over and over again in the dreams are more than enough. Other times, only the sight and smell of a fresh kill will calm the Hyena. The predator considers all of its _hidden_ kills and stops to think about maybe visiting some of them again. The Hyena wonders if its host would be up to such a trip. Maybe. Around the players in this deadly drama the charcoal greyness of the empty place presses the Hyena back into the moment as its squirming brain is filled with a fuchsia buzz of anticipation. The master predator growls deeply.

The Hyena is aware on some level that its host has been injured, again, but the sting of the knife blade has been pushed back far into the carnivore’s most primitive brain. Right now, it is captivated by this sheep who dared fight back. The predator crouches down and waits for the sheep to wear himself out.

Granted, this might take awhile; its surprising energy reserves should be almost lowered enough to the point of incapacitation. It is good that they are alone here in the back of this empty store. There is nothing to enable the prey to hide, save for some large, half-crushed empty shipping boxes. The Hyena is a bit perturbed that it did not sense the danger to itself; in the end, however, the danger has simply made this particular sheep a bit more _interesting_. He is about six feet three inches tall, with a broad, muscular chest and a thick, almost non-existent neck. Prior military history means exactly squat to the Hyena, though that knowledge in the future will make it less apt to make a mistake like this one is turning out to be. The single slim slice that the Hyena managed to make across the man’s bare torso is deep but not fatal. With every swing of his powerful arms, more blood spurts forth, staining his light blue jeans with a deep, vivid wine color.

The Hyena snarls in impatient hunger. This one apparently will not go down without a fight. No mercy, since the sheep has already managed to injure the predator. The Hyena pushes in closer to its rapidly weakening victim. The man's brown eyes are wide now with fear and wonderfully, gratifying salmon pink tendrils of pain. The Hyena is now finally able to remove its weapon from the limp hand of the sheep in order to finish the job. The master predator does not break the gaze between itself and its prey, instead relishing in the way the light disappears from those weak eyes when the sheep finally realizes that its life is at an end. Two more slashes with the sharp blade: another across the torso and one across the neck. The second cut does not do the intended damage, instead the man falls to his knees and then rolls over on his side where he gurgles and sputters. Flecks of scarlet foam dampen his dry and cracked lips as he chokes against the viscous fluid that gave him life as it slowly drains from him.

The Hyena, in the manner of predators everywhere, leans down and takes a tiny taste of the warm red river. Hyenas do not howl as do wolves, so it moans its ecstasy at the tangy taste of iron and copper. The predator revels in the completion of another kill. Satiated for the moment, it moves into the gray wool of nothingness as its host sets to work displaying its awesome power, only semi-aware of the punishment the Hyena will unleash on it later for allowing the blade of its chosen weapon to become so dull.

***

Another morning has come. Melia glances at the clock and her heart begins to pound until she remembers _Saturday_. The dogs have already jumped up on the bed but seem to be content just to laze around with her a bit, since she got home so late last night. Walson is a goofy pup, stretched out on his stately back with all four paws in the air, snoring softly, his wide mouth open in a strange upside-down grin. Hemlock is down at the foot of the bed, on his belly with his head turned in Melia’s direction, his incongruous blue eyes watching every move she makes.

Melia smiles at the dog and pats the bed next to her. He jumps up and somehow manages to scramble over Walson to flop down against her belly. She laughs as she buries her face against the clean coarse fur of his neck and rubs Walson's warm belly with her other hand.

This morning’s walk is brief; each step the trio takes punctuated by raindrops. When they return to the house, it is to the sound of the telephone ringing off the hook. Melia races into the kitchen and picks it up, answering the seldom used machine with a quiet “hello.”

“Melia?” Her boss asks.

“Hi Brad. What can I help you with?” Melia leans against the wall, amazed to find that she is relieved that it is only Brad on the other end of the line. This reaction to something so ordinary still bothers her.

“Sure, yeah, Melia. The report you finished last night on the slasher case? Do you remember?”

As if she had any other cases at the moment, save for confirming the death of a ninety eight year old man from sarcoma. “Of course I do.”

“Why did you run the test twice? Did you not realize what a valuable sample this will be to the prosecutor once they find a suspect?”

“Yes, Brad, I did. My first set of results were…” she trails off, totally at a loss for a word. She wants to say _impossible_ , though that may not be the best tactic to take with him, since the man is a scientist through and through and the word simply does not even exist in his vocablulary.  She settles on “…inconclusive.”

Brad snorts through the phone. “You do realize that is ridiculous, right?” Melia can hear him tapping his fingers against the steel counter.

“Yes, I do." She takes a deep breath. "It’s just that the first test showed me two different blood types and I don’t know how that is possible, especially if the pee dee is so sure that this is a sample from the perp rather than the victim.”

“Right. Did you ever think that forensics screwed up on their part and managed to collect the blood samples of both of them together?” Brad asks.

“Yes, of course I do. I ran the sample of the victim back through again, as well. Since she was a _she_ and an obvious non-secretor, well, there is no mistake on my end, Brad, I swear.” The hand she cradles the telephone with shakes a little.

“Fine. I just wanted to double check with you before I file it, that’s all. Nothing to be upset over. It is still possible they screwed up.  I keep saying that they ought to actually let us into crime scenes, because we at least know _what_ to look for….” Brad rambles on for a bit, a new rant on an existing theme. Melia busies herself with a cup of strawberry yogurt from the fridge, pacing a little as she spoons the stuff into her mouth. Brad finally gets down off of his soapbox and hangs up. Something prickles at the back of Melia’s mind about the case; something is just not right. She shakes her head and flips on the television, content to be lazy for a while; beyond the windows, raindrops fall heavily to the ground.

Around two o’clock that afternoon, the rain has cleared. Melia is half dozing on the couch, Mr. Blanchard's old book in her hands. She has been contemplating Ishmael’s narrative when the crass sound of the telephone cuts through her thoughts. Walson rolls over from where he is on the floor with his head on her foot. Hemlock's ears prick up but neither dog moves more than that.

“Hello?” Melia hates the fact that she never seems able to control the slight tremor in her voice when she answers the telephone; seriously, though, two calls in one day are virtually unheard of in her life for the past two years.

“Melia! When are you going to break down and get a cell phone?” Rafael calls down the line in his best I-am-the-most-important-person-in-your-life voice.

Melia giggles, it always good to hear from her best friend. “Oh, Rafie, I’ve just been home all day. Don’t even lie and say you’ve been trying to call, blah blah.”

“Yeah, you are right, smart ass. How is your life going? Want some company for the rest of the afternoon? We were pushed out our cubicles early with a line of crap about hours…and I quit listening once I knew I was free. Want me to bring over some of that chocolate lava cake you like so much?”

“Rafie, that would be wonderful. We can finally catch up! I’ve got an odd case pending I’d love to hear you poke some holes into.”

She hangs up, feeling a little better about her day off. Both dogs are paying attention now. Melia smiles at them and holds her hands out, suddenly feeling lighter than she has all week.

"Walk?"

***

Detective Michael Goddard rubs his palm over his forehead and blinks against the garish flashing lights. The scene in front of him is one of the worst that he’s ever encountered; as far as gore goes, anyhow. _Always darkest before the dawn_ , he thinks, staring ahead at the no longer empty display window. A large man’s corpse has been displayed as if an offering to some blood-thirsty deity. In life,this John Doe was more than six feet tall and seems to have been built like a linebacker. There are several long cuts on his torso, most that would have healed eventually, save for the longest one running from his throat; oddly, the rust colored stains left by the drying blood remind Mike of Christmas ribbons. He closes his eyes, suddenly weary and desperately in need of coffee or some liquid facsimile thereof. The detective shakes his head a fraction, trying to keep his focus on what is going on at scene. 

Now, though, the big man in the window is little more than a jumble of flesh, his arms spread out to the sides, hands stuck to the wall with what the detective is sure are nails from a nail gun that is nowhere to be found. A fact, according to one of the nameless Forensic techs that sometimes Mike hates because they are way too chipper for fucking four dumbass-o’clock in the morning, especially when facing something this gruesome. He looks around the place before finally deciding to walk through the otherwise empty store, noting the bloody tracks that mark where the victim had been dragged across the linoleum to his final resting place. Mike chuckles darkly to himself, knowing that the graveside humour is a coping mechanism that everyone who is part of this line of work to protect their own humanity. Of course, sometimes it is difficult to turn it off, which is why after five years he is no longer married.

Mike pokes about for a bit, trying to stay out of the techs’ way. This morning, there are three of them; two taking samples and the third setting up some lights in order to properly photograph the scene. He is just turning away to head back outside when one of them calls him back over to the corpse.

“Detective! Can you a spare a minute?” Naturally.

“Yes?” He asks, even as he steps closer, but still maintains the perimeter to prevent cross-contamination.

“The victim’s hands, detective.” The tech, whose name Mike thinks may perhaps be Sam or Seth or something, holds out one of the dead man’s broad hands for closer inspection. Mike kneels down and looks closely without touching. The victim’s nails are all broken, two of them bent backwards from sheer force. “He fought back.” He says. The three techs just look at him as if he’s grown another head.

“Well,” he snaps at them, “bag and tag ‘em. Scrape whatever you can get and get it to the lab ASAP."

“Yes, sir.” The techs say in unison.

Mike gives them a nod and leaves, knowing that he will be playing the scene over and over in his head as he drives the thirty minutes to the station, wondering what it the world could fight a man in that kind of shape with enough force to bend fingernails. Out of the four victims he believes are related to this case, this is the first one that seems to have had the presence of mind to actually resist. They did manage to find a blood sample at an earlier scene that did not match the victim’s. He tries to remind himself to call the lab later in the day to find out more about that. Perhaps they can find something useful here that will enable them to get more information about their killer.

****

“Hi Melia, is Brad around?” Mike asks when he finally gets a free moment to telephone the lab. He perches on the edge of his orderly desk, resting one foot on the floor. His long fingers fiddle with an ink pen as he cradles the phone on his shoulder. 

“No, he is out today giving at lecture at the college.” Melia offers, cradling the handset of the phone between her shoulder and her left ear, leaving her hands free to type.

“Do you know when he’s gonna drag his ugly mug back into the building? I need some information from him on the bloodwork from the slasher case.” There’s a tapping sound down the line as Mike fiddles with an inkpen on his desk.

“Actually, he passed that over to me.” Melia offers.

“Really?”

“Don’t sound so surprised, Detective, just because I’m nice doesn’t make me an idiot.”

“Oh, no, Melia! You misunderstand me. In all the years I’ve known him, he has worked the most headline-worthy cases. I’m impressed, that’s all.” Mike tries to soothe her ruffled feathers.

Melia laughs. “Alright, you are forgiven, Mikey.”

“Don’t call me that.” There’s a weird popping noise as Mike yanks the pen cap he has been chewing on out of his mouth. The sharp point of it drags across his lip and the resulting cut and sharp inhalation makes his voice sound gruffer than he had intended.

“Alright, alright. Don’t get your panties in a wad.” Melia snorts, instantly cross. 

“Wow, someone is in a bad mood today!”

“No, not really. I really want to talk to you about the case, there’s something odd that I keep seeing. I can drive over to the station on my lunch break if you like.” Melia’s heart tries hard to pound out of her chest as she realizes too late how that sounds.

“Actually, I’ve got a better idea. I’ve been up entirely too long today with nothing but a nasty cup of coffee that would have actually been better tasting had it really been 10W30. Would you say no if I offered to buy you lunch?”

 _Oh my god_. Melia steadies herself against the counter. She gives herself a quick pep talk before she manages to say without squeaking. “Sure, Detective, name the place.”

***

Melia decides that Mike is much younger than she originally thought. She knows he’s been through a divorce in the last six months or so and seems to work all the time; honestly, though, he is the decent sort, even if he is full of gallows’ humor. In the two years she’s been at the lab, though, she has come to expect it from all of those around her: the coroner, coroner’s assistants, other lab geeks, and of course the Forensic techs and cops.

They share a few laughs over some of the biggest, drippiest cheeseburgers she has ever seen and when the table is cleared she pulls the file on the slasher case from the bag sitting next to her on the bench. At this time of day, sports bars are less busy and the few other patrons spread about the place are pretty much ignoring them, instead watching a boxing match on the seventy inch television mounted on the wall nearest the bar. Melia spreads a handful of papers across the table in a neat chain.

“See this?” She asks, pointing to what looks like a bad representation of a bar code to Mike. He nods anyway, hoping she will not fault him for not understanding right off the bat. “That is the blood profile from the victim. This one,” she shifts the paper over and lays another one next to it. Mike can see, indeed, that the squiggles on this one are different from the first. “is the profile of the blood we think is from the perp.”

“OK.” Mike says, sitting back in his chair a little. He watches as she pulls a third sheet from the file.

“This one is also from the perp.”

Mike notes that in some ways it is similar to the second page, and even with his uniformed eyes the differences stand out. He frowns and looks up to where Melia is grinning, her bright blue eyes sparkling in the dim light from the stained glass lamp hung over their table. Something in the area of his chest purrs a little as he wonders what it takes to get her to always look at him that way. He ignores it.

“Yes, that’s exactly what I thought. I did the test twice. Granted, it was a small sample, but the best I can figure is that you may be looking for at least two slashers. I wish I had more material to work with…” Melia stares off into the distance as she sips her iced tea.

Mike catches himself staring again and chastises his brain and other parts that are desperately attempting to ignore him. “Well, actually, there was another one this morning.” Melia does not seem too shocked, which makes him happy; someone who is shocked too easily should never be in this business. For a split second, he considers reaching over and laying his hand over hers on the table.

Of course, just as he does, she stacks the pages up and slides them back into the file. He takes a big swig of his coke and tells her the story of the crime scene he was called out to early this morning. The detective leaves nothing out, even his own annoyance with the forensic techs. Melia listens closely, nodding and responding in the right places. She waits until his narrative is concluded and fidgets with her ponytail. 

"Brad is always saying that one of us should be on site..."


	3. Talk to Me

 

 

> _I can see we're thinkin' bout the same things_   
>  _And I can see your expression when the phone rings_   
>  _We both know there's something happening here_   
>  _Well, there's no sense in dancing round the subject_   
>  _A wound gets worse when it's treated with neglect_   
>  _Don't turn around there's nothing here to fear_   
>    
>  _You can talk to me_   
>  _Talk to me_   
>  _You can talk to me_   
>  _You can set your secrets free, baby_   
>    
>  _Dusty words lying under carpets_   
>  _Seldom heard well must you keep your secrets_   
>  _Locked inside hidden safe from view_   
>  _Well, is it all that hard_   
>  _Is it all that tough_   
>  _Well, I've shown you all my cards now isn't that enough_   
>  _You can hide your hurt_   
>  _But, there's something you can do_   
>    
>  _You can talk to me..._
> 
> _You Can Talk To Me, (C) Stevie Nicks_

 

 

**Chapter Three: Talk to Me  
**

“Hemlock!” Melia calls across the almost-empty dog park. The dogs have been running loose for the past forty-five minutes, and she is ready to head back home. Walson has already joined her, settling down at her feet with a plop. She shifts on the bench to put her phone, which she often uses like a book, into her pocket as she calls out to her favorite black mutt. When he finally appears at the end of the park, his ears partially sticking up and his half-arched tail waving in the breeze, he seems a happy lad and runs in her direction. The bulldog at her feet makes a faint groaning noise that had he been human, Melia is pretty sure would have meant: _I have nothing to do with whatever he’s discovered, I’ve been_ right here _with you the_ whole _time._

Hemlock joins them shortly, rubbing his head against Melia’s legs. She scratches it; when her hand bumps his jaw she notices that he has something clamped in it.

“Come on, give it up.” She him as she pokes two fingers between his teeth. He finally decides the jig is up and opens his mouth. Melia holds up a small ring with the a flat top towards the sunlight to study it. It is almost a man’s signet ring but really too small to be so. She wipes the dog slobber off of it onto her jeans in order to make out the initial on the top that appears to be the letter “H” in an old type of script. Funnily enough, it matches the initial on the tag on Hemlock’s collar. It is an interesting find, and at the same time she is glad he did not swallow it.

“Well, this is a neat thing you found, boyo, but you cannot have it back.” She scratches his ears as he flops down beside Walson, his pink tongue hanging out. She slips the ring into her pocket then gathers their leashes. As they begin their walk home, she does not think twice about the dog’s unusual find.

A slight breeze lifts the leaves of the oldest trees that surround the park, flipping from spring green to hunter green as they move, as if waving goodbye. Just beyond a strand of trees is a clump of large bushes that have gone a little long in between trimming. Behind the bushes is an eight foot tall chain link fence that prevents even the largest Great Danes from leaving the park. Beyond that fence stands a nondescript person, forgettable even at first glance. Melia sees the person out of the corner of her eye as she and the dog pass through the gate of the park, but does not spare them a second glance. Later on, when she considers the incident in passing, she will only remember plain brown hair cut in a style that would be easy to care for by either a woman or a man.

***

The Hyena paces back and forth in front of the now cleaned out and deserted store. It is angry. The sheep was found entirely too soon. How can it come back and enjoy the memory of a laborious night when the proof of those labors has been taken away so quickly? The yellow tape spread about the premises mock the predator; the wonderfully cloyingly coppery scent of freshly spilled blood has been completely covered up by the false scents of the agents used to clean up said viscous fluid. Vermilion flashes of rage well up and destroy the calm blueness left over from the exciting kill.

This will never do.

The animal is threatening to overcome its human side, and it is simply way too _soon_. It has only been a few days. The Hyena paces back and forth over the space that it claimed in such a dramatic manner such a short while ago. It stops its frantic movement, realizing the futility of the gesture then skulks quickly away as a car drives past, its headlights casting flickering shadows into the empty shop. The Hyena allows its attention to slip enough from awareness of its surroundings to wonder whether or not is has been seen.

***

Running, always running.

Melia looks down and sees that her shoes and socks have disappeared. The ground is starting to turn swampy, the muck sucking at her feet, threatening to trap her where she stands. He is but a shadow on the periphery of her mind, a taunting figure with eyes black as coal. He is laughing at her when she can no longer move. His impossibly long bright red tongue hanging pendulous from his mouth filled with razor-sharp teeth. There is a long weapon is his hands aimed directly at her heart. Her mouth is open, she knows she is screaming but cannot hear a single note of the cacophonous music being pulled from her tortured throat out of fear. She sits up in bed, tears and sweat coating her face and back. She bends over double, clutching the comforter that is twisted up around her legs. Beside her, one of the dogs whines, knowing how to bring her back to reality. It is a difficult reality to face, almost like being back in time.

It is just like it was. Tony was angry and he was chasing her… it was never going to end. After she woke up in the middle of the night with him looming over the side of the bed with the business end of the rifle that he kept for hunting pressed against her mouth, begging her to keep her lips around it, she started running from him mentally. It was one day while he was working late on a construction site, always working late when that new dispatcher woman was working...it was only then that she was finally able to sneak out in a pathetically difficult bid for freedom.

Melia fumbles with shaking hands on the bedside table, finally getting herself together enough to grip th cell phone Rafael left for her. She dials almost without knowing what she is doing, then holds the device to her ear, desperately hoping for an answer, even at this hour.

“Rafie?” She says in a watery voice when he answers to the affirmative in a gravelly, just-woken up one.

“Melia?” He seems to get it together quickly, she can hear the sound of a fingernail scratching against midnight and after stubble. “Melia?” He asks again. “Are you alright?”

“No.” She answers, trying hard not to completely lose it on the telephone.

“The dream again?” His voice is full of concern now, the normally booming tenor toned down in an attempt to calm her.

“Yes.” She cannot help the flood of tears now, more grateful for him than she can admit.

“I’ll be there in fifteen. Do me a favor, go down to the kitchen and make some of the decaffeinated tea? Please? I _will_ be there.” There is a soft click and she is left bereft of even the comfort of his smooth Spanish accent for a moment.

Melia allows the soul-cleansing tears to fall for a little longer, then does her best to remind herself that all of those things are in the past and should not still be affecting her. She has her own place, her own life and Tony is absolutely no longer in it. Except like this; the horrible memories of him are still a part of her life and that makes her angry: angry that she cannot simply wash him out of her mind the way she washes mud from Hemlock’s coat. She blunders about the kitchen, digging out the tea bags and throwing them into mismatched mugs filled from the tap then sliding the whole mess into the microwave. She is sure that her British ancestors are probably rolling in their graves but the ends justify the means in this case.

Rafael knocks twice on the door before he uses his key to unlock it. She listens as his quiet footsteps make their way through the living room and stop at the kitchen as he assesses the situation. Walson is just at Melia’s feet, Hemlock is under the table. Both dogs look up as he comes in, Hemlock swishes his tail against the linoleum then return his head to his paws. Walson simply rolls an eye in the man’s direction as if there is really no point in moving at three o'clock in the morning for someone who did not even bother to bring a hand out.

“It’s not as bad as it used to be, Rafie, you really didn’t have to come.” Melia pulls her mint green terry cloth robe closer around herself and looks down at the old table tap.

He moves from his position in the doorway to just behind her. “I am going to hug you,” he warns before wrapping his arms around her shoulders, not too tight, but enough though that she does not feel so cold. In her still-nightmare fueled mind she reminds herself that some types of human touch are good ones. She leans back into his embrace, content in the knowledge that she could get away any time she needs to.

Rafael lets go somewhat reluctantly and sits down across from her. She slides over a no-longer steaming mug of tea, along with a spoon and the Tupperware bowl that she uses for sugar. He plunges the spoon into the white crystal and flips it into his cup, stirring the whole mess quietly so as not to disturb the calm camaraderie that has fallen over them.

“Melia, can I ask you now?” Rafael sips from his cup, making a face. He really hates the de-café stuff, but it is so much better in the middle of the night. His hope is that she will relax enough to go back to sleep, since he knows she’s got a full schedule tomorrow.

Melia shifts wearily in her chair, keeping her eyes on her mug. When she finally decides this has gone on long enough, she looks up through her dark lashes at him to receive an encouraging smile. “I’m sorry, Rafie. You have been here through so much. I will never be able to tell you how much I’ve appreciated the support, thank you.”

Rafael nods his head, sips a bit more of the foul brew and settles back into the chair. “Would you prefer to sit on the couch?” He has heard loud and clear everything she did _not_ say.

“Yes, please.” Melia stands up from her chair and leads the way, mug in hand. They settle down on the dark brown sofa close enough to touch, but just barely. Melia sits in the corner made by the arm of the couch with her right arm stretched out, fingers tight around her mug. They sit there for a bit, neither saying anything until the dogs come into the room to join them. They settle on the rug and Melia seems to take this as a chance to begin talking. When she finally stops, Rafael finds tears on his own face. He had known that the situation was bad enough that she was still having nightmares, after all. There have always been details that he felt she omitted. He wonders, and not for the first time, whether now would be the time to tell her how he really feels; deciding that she’s perhaps had enough emotional highs and lows for one night. He agrees to stay on the couch and manages to get her to go back up to her own bed.

The rest of the night passes by without incident.

***

Melia comes down the stairs from her bedroom the next morning to find Rafael moving easily about her kitchen, his hips swaying to a melancholy song playing on the radio that sits on top of the fridge. She catches enough of the Spanish words to understand the woman is singing about a lost lover. Rafael's dark, wavy hair is neatly in place, his jeans crisp and clean and he is barefoot. She is surprised and at the same time horrified to find him still there. She mumbles an embarrassed thank you as she drops into one of the chairs. He gives her a pat on the shoulder and slides a plate under her nose, then puts a mug of coffee in her hand. She stares at it, noting that he remembers she likes cream in hers. She sips it then finds that she is ravenous after all of last night’s talking.

For a short moment, Rafael stands behind Melia with one hand on her shoulder. It is not awkward, but she does not know what to do with it, so she shrugs a little to let him know that she appreciates the gesture. He pats her again and moves off to get his own plate. He sits down and begins eating; when she finishes her own meal, she notices that he is rubbing the back of his neck. At once she is horrified that he was uncomfortable and amazed that he cares enough for her state of mind to actually stay.

"Don't worry, Melia. Please. I know you have to work today. I'm off all day. I've got to head home for a bit, but after that I'll come back and hang out with these two." He gestures towards the dogs who are camped out under the table seeming to be doing their best to be invisible and not that they are doing any type of begging whatsoever.

Melia puts her hands together in her lap and gives him such a sorrowful look that he sighs. He places his dishes in the sink and rinses them before giving her another pat on the shoulder. Melia follows him to the front door, where she wraps her arms around his trim waist. In return, he rests his chin against the top of her head and holds her.

“I’m glad you told me.” He whispers, tightening his arms about her; only for a second for fear that he will give himself away and she will run. Something warm and light curls up in his chest when she remains standing with him.

“It was unfair of me to keep asking you to listen all this time, when you did not understand it all.” Melia answers, her voice slightly muffled by his the gray T-shirt over his broad chest.

“I’ll see you tonight.” He pulls away, one hand on the doorknob. The expression playing over his tan features is one she cannot easily identify, perhaps because she is simply not looking for it.

“It’s okay, Rafie. You don’t have to. I’ll be fine.” Melia offers up to him what she hopes is enough of a smile to prove to herself that her words are true.

Rafael shakes his head. “No. Don’t try that with me. I’ve got to go back to the apartment for a bit, but I will be here when you get home.”

An odd silence falls then that is as deafening as a clap of thunder when their eyes meet: Rafael’s amber irises full of caring, Melia’s dark blue ones always questioning. It is possible that he understands much more now than she does and he thinks it is just as well. He would never hurt her. There is something else, too, that they have both been ignoring for entirely too long. That unknowable thing seems only one heartbeat away when Rafael opens the door and steps out into a new day that is passively backlit with unspoken promises. He casually slips his bare feet into an old pair of Nikes that he left there when he came in after her frantic light-night telephone call to him. 

Melia waves as he backs his old Camry out of the driveway. She forces herself to turn away from the door to get ready for work. As the dogs follow her to the bedroom, she allows herself to think about the possibilities of the future, then shuts it down as quickly as it began. They are _friends_ and neither of them has ever made any movement to change that; besides she already knows how terrible she is at relationships—all she has to do is think about Tony.

Not now though. Rafael says he will be here this evening: they can talk all night if they have to, neither of them have any responsibilities tomorrow, other than taking the dogs out for walks. She wonders briefly if he will go out with them, smiling a little to herself when she realizes that she doesn’t even have to ask. Melia is more than curious to see what type of impression he will make on her elderly neighbors. In the time that they have know each other, she is always amazed by the little details he seems to pick up on—sometimes, like last night, seeming to know what she needs before she is even aware of it herself. 

                    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 23 2014, minor edits made, chapter cleaned up.


	4. The Stranger

 

> _Well we all have a face_   
>  _That we hide away forever_   
>  _And we take them out and show ourselves_   
>  _When everyone has gone_   
>  _Some are satin some are steel_   
>  _Some are silk and some are leather_   
>  _They're the faces of the stranger_   
>    
>  _But we love to try them on_
> 
> _The Stranger, (C) Billy Joel_

 

**Chapter Four: The Stranger  
**

Nothing unusual happens throughout the work day to prevent Melia's thoughts from constantly running back to Rafael. The only new body in the morgue is the victim from the murder that Detective Goddard told Melia about. She had to go and take one look, mostly out of morbid curiosity. To say that all she really wanted to do was puke her guts out the rest of the day after the viewing was an understatement, she informs Brad at some point that day. Even after everything she has seen in her short time of working in the lab, sometimes it is still hard to stomach the way human beings treat each other. The sight of the otherwise healthy John Doe cut down in the prime of his life like that threatens to crowd happier memories out of her mind She latches onto one of Rafael laughing after telling her some computer joke, allowing it to lighten her spirit. There is not much that can be done with the John Doe now, but she can at least hope his killer will eventually come to justice.

She finishes up a couple of little tests sent in by the coroner, but, really, there’s nothing left for the time being so she cleans up her station and is pretty much standing around watching the clock as it proceeds to fuck up the entire time-space continuum. Finally, finally, it hits five o’clock and she pushes out the double doors.

Melia’s small car is pretty much a rust bucket, but it runs, so she finds some small measure of happiness there. It is also paid off, which is a bonus. She watches the roads carefully the closer into town she gets, the local kids all are out of school now and seem to all be in the streets at the same time. Waving at a couple of her neighbors, she turns into her driveway to park behind Rafael’s silver Camry. Neither of them care too much about cars, they are just something to get around in. She pulls her key ring out of her purse, the three keys tinkling against each other. She spares a few thoughts to her long boring day, but those are completely destroyed when she opens the door.

A wonderful smell rolls through the house; she can easily make out cilantro and habanero peppers. Yes! Rafael is cooking. That must have been the reason he went home this morning. She closes the door and the dogs come rushing out of the kitchen to greet her, so she bends down to show them that she’s missed them, too. She laughs a the way they dance around her feet, even though Walson tries hard to seem above it all, she knows he will always be a pup at heart. When she looks up from scratching Hemlock’s head, Rafael is standing with his back against the wall of the kitchen entryway with a wooden spoon in his hand, a white apron slung over his hips and looking for all the world like some sun-kissed ancient Spanish god. He waves the spoon at her and she fights the urge to rush to him and throw her arms around his shoulders.

“Tell me about your day.” He smiles and rolls his 'R's' and everything is alright with the world.

***

As always, the enchiladas are perfect. The chicken is tender, the red sauce is spicy and flirty, the wine exquisite and the company cannot be matched. “Thank you, you know how much I love your cooking.” Melia smiles at him in a way that makes him feel as if he is going to melt into a big pile of goo.

“You are quite welcome, _senorita_.” He grins a little when she blushes. “Melia, would you ever consider going out with me?”

Melia suddenly goes still. The relaxed atmosphere stretches thinly between them; it threatens to suck all the joy from the kitchen. She considers his words for a few moments, completely unaware of the way he is holding his breath. She smiles, finishes chewing the bite in her mouth then reaches out to grasp his hand. “I think that would be nice, Rafie. I trust you.”

Rafael grins back. Things are certainly looking up.

After dinner, they take the dogs out for a long walk around town. Rafael walks Hemlock and Melia just barely holds onto Walson’s leash as the bulldog is so well trained he could practically walk himself. Melia holds the leash in her right hand, Rafael between the fingers of his left hand. There is a space between them that steadily grows smaller as they walk. Eventually they stop at a quaint sidewalk café. Melia sits outside with the dogs while Rafael goes inside to order them something to drink. The slight breeze coming off the river causes the colorful triangular-shaped flags tied around the awning over the little tables to whip about. Across the road is a short rock wall and beyond that the lazily meandering river that throws little sparks of light from the tiny crests of waves created by the current. Farther out, the sun is beginning to dip lowly against the horizon.

“Melia!” A familiar voice calls out. Melia cranes her head over her shoulder to see Detective Goddard.

She gives him a wave. Hemlock barks once, Walson does not budge from his comfortable spot under the table. “Hi, Detective, how are you?”

Mike pulls out the chair across from Melia and drops his husky frame into it. “Remember the case I was talking to you about the other day?” He unbuttons the collar of his light blue uniform shirt, rolls up his sleeves and then runs a broad palm over his silvering hair to smooth it down on top.

“Yes, sure do.”

“Well, I think you are on the right track” He says. “I’ve been hoping to run into you today just to toss some more ideas around.”

“Thanks, it's good to hear that I’m not crazy.” Melia laughs a little. Rafael steps out of the shop with two glasses of iced tea in his hands. He sets them down on the table and offers his hand to the newcomer.

“Detective Goddard.” Mike says as he shakes hands with the tall, good-looking young man.

“Rafael Ramirez.” Rafael gives a nod, sizing up the older man. Behind him, Melia sighs. “Is everything okay, Detective?” He asks, his voice a bit gruffer than he had intended.

Mike gives him a smile that he hopes says he is no threat to whatever there is between Melia and Rafael. Mike’s cohorts often call it his _Columbo_ smile, but Mike knows better. “No, nothing like that. She ran some tests on a sample found at a crime scene, and I was looking for her opinion.”

“A crime scene, out here in Riverville, the capital of Po-Dunk City? What, did some old lady run over some other old lady’s cat?” He snarks then stops upruptly when he looks at Melia’s face. She is not smiling; not frowning, either, but her expression is certainly not one inviting humor. “What?” He asks her, a little confused.

“Actually, it is pretty serious, Rafie. Someone is going around killing men and leaving their bodies out in some kind of sick display.” Melia offers.

“Oh, I didn’t know.” Rafael is chagrined and more than a little embarrassed. He takes a long drink of his tea, suddenly finding the lemon wedge floating on top of the ice to be of the utmost interest.

“No, it's okay. No one really knows except those of us who have been investigating the whole thing. It’s been going on for months, really, and we are no closer to a suspect now that we were when the first victim was found.” Mike brushes at the air with one hand as if trying to push away the aggravation of a nasty murder and no idea about the perp that did it; it works about as well as it always does.

Rafael scrunches up his aquiline nose. Melia pats his hand. “Do you really want to hear this?” She asks him.

He considers it for a moment. On the one hand, he is not really interested to hear about the underbelly of the ridiculously sunshiney town they live in; on the other hand, however, he needs to show Melia that he wants to stand by her, no matter what gets tossed at them.

“Alright,” he says, “go ahead.” He takes another long drink of his tea, but not before squishing the lemon slice further into the glass.

Melia holds at a hand towards the detective. Mike nods and begins.

“We found the first body about nine months ago. Middle-aged white male, very well built, healthy. Body was clean except for his throat: he had been dispatched with a single slice across the jugular. His body had been set up on his leather desk chair, his hands placed on the keyboard and tied down with wire. After we investigated the scene, we moved him. As soon as the wires around his wrists were pulled on, the computer screen lit up to show us a hoard of porn.”

“Okay.” Rafael says, a little mystified as to the big deal.

“No, not that kind of porn; this is the kind of porn anyone with children tries hard not to think about.”

“Oh.”

Melia nods, her eyes flicking from Rafael and back to the detective.

“Right.” Mike says. He clears his throat. “The second body was found in a similar position up at the bank offices. That was in December, just before Christmas last year. When the man was moved, we uncovered a right little organized plot of embezzlement that started with a big fancy gym and ended with the President of the bank.”

“Wow.” Rafael whistles lowly.

“Yep.” Mike states as he stands up. “Have you got some time, do you want me to go through it all?”

“Please.” Says Melia, intrigued now despite herself.

“Okay, let me go get one of those,” Mike points at their glasses, “I’ll be right back.”

It isn’t long before he returns and settles back down in the chair. “Where was I?” The detective wraps one strong hand around the middle of his glass and takes a deep draught.

“The third victim.” Melia says, noting to her own amusement that Rafael has not moved his hand.

“Right. The third one is where things change up and begin getting gory.” He gives Rafael a pointed look. The younger man nods. “The third one was discovered at the end of January, behind a warehouse. Once again, with his throat cut. This time, though, he also had a clean slice across his abdomen. There were scratch marks on his arms. He was the first one that had fought back.”

“How can you be sure it is the same killer?” Rafael asks, his iced tea all but forgotten.

Melia watches a trickle of water run down the side of her glass. “Same thing I asked him.”

“She did. Right. Well, we aren’t completely one hundred percent positive on that note. _I_ think it’s the same killer because there were narrow cuts around the victim’s ankles as if someone else had attempted to tie him up with wire. When the techs measured them, they matched the gauge of the wires found on the other two victims.” Mike scratches at the back of his neck absentmindedly and shrugs lightly.

“That’s the scene where the blood sample I tested came from.” Melia states.

“What did this victim lead you to discover?” Rafael’s fingers have tightened around Melia’s.

“Well, nothing, at least nothing that the victim seems to have been part of. We found a little bit of drug ring operating out of that warehouse, though it cannot be proven either way that the victim was part of it.” Mike looks between both of them, noting how they are hanging on his every word. Maybe he will take Paul up on his offer to guest lecture at the college some time.

“Anyway, after that they get weirder. The victim from three months ago was another man, about the same age. He was black, though, not white. Same cut across the throat, actually found a few feet away from where the third victim had been. He was laid out on his back, feet wired together, arms spread out wide. Kinda’ like those crucifixes you see in the big churches. He has no real connection to any wrongdoing, either, save for the stash of alcohol bottles found in the basement of his house.  After that, there was another one in May and then this most recent one.”

Melia ticks off her fingers, looking for a pattern. So there was one in October last year, December, then January, March, then May, and now one in June? Do you think the killer is escalating or is there no real pattern?”

“I don’t think the pattern is meant to be, if you follow me.” He takes a drink from his glass. “This most recent one fought back, too. His wounds were hurried, done in a much more haphazard fashion. What do you know about profiling?” Mike turns to Melia.

“Not much, I only had the one class. It seems a really shipshod way to investigate if you ask me, but who I am, I’m just a lab geek.” She laughs, a little worried that she has offended her new friend in some way. Around them, the night is beginning to close in and the dogs are getting restless under the table.

Mike quirks an eyebrow at her before rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Well, I have to tell you that I do agree with you, young lady.”

Rafael unconsciously moves his chair closer to Melia’s. Mike notices but has the wisdom to keep his mouth shut. What is funny to him is that Melia seems completely unaware of the little movement.

“Why do you ask, detective?”

“Because, according to the profiling, the killer is either going to start killing every man that fits whatever the chosen ‘type’ happens to be in the next few weeks or simply fizzle out and go away. You realize that this is the reason most serial killers are never caught in the first place?”

“Yeah, I remember that from class.” Melia drains her tea.

Mike starts to say something else when the cell phone in his pocket buzzes. He reads the text quickly and starts to rise, casting an appreciative glance at Melia and then realizing that he is most certainly old enough to be her father. Stopping that train before it can even get out of the station, he says:

“Look, Melia, can I ask that this conversation be kept between the three of us?” He gestures around the table. They both nod their agreement. “That’s great, thank you. I’m going to go off the beaten path a little and it really helps to have someone to bounce ideas off of.”

“Sure, Mike, anytime.” Melia offers.

Mike does not miss the little frown that appears between Rafael’s brows. He stands and offers his hand to the young man again, a token of ‘I’m not trying to home in on your territory’ shake. Rafael squeezes it in real gratitude and seems to relax a little.

“See you kids later.” The detective waves as he turns to head back down the street towards the police department. 

***

Back at Melia’s house, it is her turn to cook. She is busy in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a salad when she notices Rafael watching her carefully. “Hey, Rafie.” She offers, without looking up. Suddenly there is a warm body pressed against her backside. She cannot control the slight shudder that passes down her spine, though she is glad she did not freeze this time.

“Rafie.” She says quietly. “It’s not that I don’t think of you that way…”

“I understand.” His voice is a deep purr in her ear. “Melia, I think about _you_ almost every single day. I know you only think of me as a friend…”

“Rafie, you are my best friend.” She sets the knife down and turns in his embrace. “I just…I’m not what you want.”

“Why do you say that?” He asks, resting his chin against the top of her head.

“All that stuff I told you last night…”

He cuts her off. “I don’t care. That’s the past, Melia. I’ll never tell you that have to forget it, but truly, you can’t let it run your life.”

She stiffens in the circle of his arms but makes no move to get away. She closes her eyes and rests her head against his chest, just over his heart. The beats are strong and steady, the arms around her are comforting without caging. If she could do this with anyone, it would certainly be him. “Will you be patient with me?”

Rafael touches under her chin with two fingers, forcing her to look up at him. Once again, there is that feeling of _something_ brewing just under the surface when their eyes lock. He notes the shine of unshed tears in the deep cerulean irises that he is starting to think he cannot live without. “Always, _mi amore_. Always.” He whispers before leaning in and kissing her softly, his warm lips just grazing hers.

Melia is overcome with an emotion she was sure she would never feel again for the rest of her life. She slides her hands from Rafael’s chest up around his shoulders and returns his soft kiss with interest. He backs up so that he is resting against the counter, his hands stroking her back. She leans into his strong body, basking in the warmth that is melting away all the fears she has held locked up in her heart for entirely too long.

When they pull apart for air, they stand just staring at each other.

“I want you, Melia.” Rafael almost growls, fighting the urge to drag her to the bedroom cave-man style.

“Please, Rafie, give me time?” Melia starts to step away from him. He grabs her and draws her back, rubbing shapes on her back through her thin cotton shirt.

“We have all the time in the world.” He states, secretly proud that his voice shows a control he is not feeling. His legs are actually shaking from what takes to remain standing. He takes a deep breath and reminds himself that the good things in life are worth waiting for. Rafael recognizes the feeling in his chest as a mixture between relief that she did not reject him, hope that she will continue to trust him and utter joy that what they have is real and can only continue to grow from this point onward.

“Thank you.” Melia says, pushing up on her tiptoes to grace him with another chaste kiss. He cups her cheek with one hand and they share a smile. “Dinner?” She asks as she pulls away, slowly, to show him that she is not leaving: not this time. 

***

Roiling clouds of opalescent pink memories surround themselves within a bubble of black rainbows as the Hyena sleeps of the edge of its rage.

Its human host is rambling through the large, empty house they have broken into in search of sustenance. They all ignored the big "Foreclosed" sign on the front lawn and proceeded to break the doorknob on the back door, which happened to lead right into the kitchen. The human is hungry and has been on edge for the past week. It has all happened so fast. From the first victim to the last, the human side feels like has been asleep. The human only sees itself as human, so far gone that a name, an identity no longer registers. Ah. There is food in the kitchen. The Hyena simply refers to the human side of its being as “the human” or “host.” The host decides that is good enough as it eats its way through week-old leftovers, including a pack of bologna that seems to be a bit on the green side. It does not matter, the host is only there to provide a vehicle for the Hyena when it needs to come out.

In the darkest hours of the night, the host finds itself on its knees praying to the porcelain god. Almost everything it ate has come back up, leaving the body trembling on the floor that is cold even in the summer. The old fears return, washing over the host like the tides, taking the remaining vestiges of sanity with them. There are no lights to turn on, there is no electricity in the house. That means no air conditioning, either, though that will cease to be a problem when this is all over.

The host shudders and trembles and the body fights the fever that threatens to overtake the mind for good. Powerful memories remind it why it is better off with the Hyena. The Hyena cares for it, makes sure the host knows it is an invaluable part of _something_. The Hyena barely speaks, but when it does it issues its orders in a calm, smooth voice not unlike a soft breeze through the low shrubbery that grew alongside the apartment building the host used to hide in. Not like Mother. The host closes its eyes and falls back in time.

Heidi was ten years old when they explained to her why she was physically different from the other children in her grade. Later, she would learn that it was the reason Father had left Mother on the night of her birth: she was a freak, a joke of nature, a blight on the planet, a spawn of evil. Heidi would never know her father, though she understood then that he was what her friend Rachel called a “Bible Thumper,” and believed that Mother had done something wrong in order to create such a freak.

Rachel did not laugh at her. Rachel did not laugh at Heidi all the way through grade school, Middle school and into their first year of High School. In Ninth grade they found her dad’s liquor cabinet and decided to make an evening of it, down in the finished basement that had been turned into a quite lovely, and very private sitting room. Rachel’s parents went out for the night, confident that the two fourteen-year-old girls could fend for themselves after providing pizza and soft drinks for them. Rachel popped a movie into the VCR and they watched it together. It was only after that when the bottle came out, things got fuzzy and it was not long before they were both naked and then they blacked out. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, Rachel’s parents came home and caught them together. Heidi remembers their argument against “gays” and vaguely remembers telling them that since she was _both_ it did not matter. She was turned out of their home to walk back to her own. After that night, she never saw Rachel again. Rachel’s father conveniently got promoted at work and they had to move away. The last thing she remembers of Rachel was her tear-stained face in the window and her mouth forming the words _I love you, it does not matter to me_ over and over as her parents shouted abuse at Heidi, naturally blaming her for 'corrupting their princess.'

The next year, Mother decided that they needed to move and Heidi decided to become Henry. Henry was a loner, ignored by the other teenagers that had more important things on their minds. Sure, the other kids noticed that Henry was not as tall nor as muscular as the other boys, and his voice nowhere near as deep. He was good at Chemistry and Algebra, further setting himself apart. Henry most often returned home to a squalid rental house. Mother started taken to being gone longer and longer, until one day Henry came home from school.

“Heidi, I need to talk to you for a minute.” Henry hated being called that name, however, he closed the door behind himself anyway. He stood in front of Mother, watching her eyes rove over him, taking in the plain button-down shirt, nondescript second-hand jeans and scuffed tennis shoes. Henry returned the favor, taking in the dark circles under Mother’s eyes, her spoiled teeth and sagging breasts. He waited.

“Heidi, I have met _someone_ and I think it is time for me to go away. I know I’ve not been much use to you in your…well, let’s say _state_ , but I can’t do this anymore. I’ve been doing it for fifteen years, and honey, I just _can’t_.” Mother walks over to Henry, places a single kiss on his forehead and turns away, never once looking back or showing any type of regret for the life Henry has led or will lead.

Henry crumples to the floor right there in the middle of the dusty living room and cries for the mother he never had. After a time, he sits up; he idly walks from room to room, finally finding a wad of cash in Mother’s---well no one’s now, really—dresser drawer. He pockets the cash, packs a bag with his meager belongings and follows in Mother’s footsteps. He locks the door from the outside and tosses the key to the ground. He never returns to that house.

The host wakes up from the floor, head muddled and temples throbbing. It slowly makes its way to its feet to splash water on its face. It seems that the worst of the storm is over; it fades more as the Hyena begins to wake. The host happily closes its eyes, more thrilled now that it has been reminded of its past to sit back and just go along for the ride.

 


	5. Evil in the Air

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 24 2014: I am still working on 'cleaning up' the next two chapters and I felt like there should have been a bit more combined, so if one chapter disappears, do not fret, because I've simply added to the chapter before it.

 

 

 

> _There's a man in the shadows with a gun in his eye,_  
>  and a blade shining oh so bright.  
>  _There's evil in the air and there's thunder in sky,_  
>  _and a killer's on the bloodshot streets._
> 
> _Bat Out of Hell (C) Writer(s): Jim Steinman  
>  Copyright: Edward B Marks Music Company, Marks Edward B. Music Corp._

 

**Chapter Five: Evil in the Air  
**

Mike Goddard is up to his elbows in paperwork: it is strewn so far across his desk he does not believe he is ever going to see the end of it. He stretches his legs out in front of him and crosses his arms behind his head, effectively popping his shoulders and elbows with a loud _click_. He has considered the slasher problem from every angle; with every single theoretical scenario he comes up to solve the problem leads him to the same answer that Melia reached: there are either two killers or someone walking around with two different blood profiles, which is frankly ridiculous.

He is starting to think that the two-killer theory has more merit. One of them does the research, a term he really does not like when applied here, and one who actually does the killing. Every single kill stroke on all six victims is identical, there is no hiding it. Hidden, however, is most certainly the motive as well as the murder weapon. He sighs again then unfolds his arms to rub at his tired eyes. He peeks over his finger at the clock on the wall, which annoyingly says that it has only been fifteen minutes since he looked at it last. Damn thing must be trying to kill him as effectively as that triple-meat BLT he had for lunch which certainly tasted better going down the first time than it did the second.

“Sir?” A voice asks from the door.

“Come in.” Mike calls without looking up from the vast acreage of files and papers he is now contemplating. The door to his office is pushed open and in strides the newest member of the Homicide Division , such that it is here in Riverville, made up of himself and two part-time police persons: Jason Lambert and then this woman, Iris Young.

Iris stops in front of his desk, mentally restraining herself from clicking her heels together. She is just out of the Air Force, having decided after the first four years that she would rather be a cop. Mike feels that her brilliance is actually wasted here and as a result, constantly challenges her with the most complex cases he can find. Such as the one he was just brooding over.

“Well, Young, what is your opinion?” He sits back in the chair a little, trying to give off a fatherly old-cop-teaching-new-cop air.

Iris smiles at him and straightens the crisp collar of her uniform shirt. “Sir, I have discovered something I do not have the resources to understand, sir.”

“Come of it, Young, you are a civilian now. Right?” Mike watches as she relaxes a little and wishes she would just sit down already.

“Sorry, sir. It still feels weird to be back here, s…” Her eyes go wide as she chokes back the second ‘sir.’

“Oh come on, Young, you are killing me. There’s not that many years between us! All that sir stuff makes me feel like my Grandad!” He laughs a little because sometimes you just have to.

“Alright, sir, I mean Detective Goddard.” Iris snaps back to attention without realizing it.

“Come off it, Young! It’s Mike, for godssakes, _Mike_!” He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead, exasperated. “Just sit down, please.” Mike points at the chair in front of his desk. She sits. “Now could you please just tell me, plainly, what you make out of the lab reports.”

Iris nods her head and thoughtfully chews her lip. Her short black hair is neatly styled and barely brushes the top of her collar on the back of her neck. Mike is struck with a strange desire to see if it is as soft as it looks like it would be then internally chastises himself since he seems to be working on becoming such a perv since Amy left.

“What I discovered in the lab reports,” she begins without further preamble, “is that either the perpetrator is a person who is carrying around bags of other people’s blood at his killing scenes or there is possible two perpetrators.” The unspoken _sir_ at the end of her sentence is still heard by both of them, loud and clear.

“That’s good, Young. I’ve been thinking along similar lines. Thank you.” Iris gives him another stiff nod then leaves him in peace. At least he didn't have to say 'dismissed' this time. Mike sighs and fiddles with an ink pen.

He has already attempted to discuss his ideas in a nutshell with the Chief who pretty much said that he is a whack job and if he continued to go down that road with _that_ ridiculous line of belief he may wake up one day and find himself jobless. In other words, Mike’s job was to arrest the perp if and when the Forensics people came up with a positive ID. There were just too many cases on the docket and too few officers in this town for one of said officers to try and moonlight as a PI on public funds. Mike, being a halfway decent detective, apologized to the Chief and headed back to his own problems.

***

“What do you think, Rafie? Is it possible for one person to have different blood types?” Melia is sitting with her back against the headboard of her bed, Rafael stretched out on his back between her pajama-clad legs, his head resting against her thigh. Hemlock is stretched out beside them and Walson is at the foot of the bed, indignantly curled up. Apparently Rafael is in his spot.

The whole thing started out as a back massage by Rafael for Melia, then they switched places. Melia kept on her T-shirt, though Rafael is much more comfortable with himself, so he lies against her soft lavender comforter sans shirt, but still in his well-worn jeans. She is now running her hands through his raven hair, threading each strand between her fingers before it falls back into place. Though she is touching him, he can see that her mind is clearly off in another world. Outside the windows, the sky is changing from azure to golden, pink and navy as the day draws to a close.

“I think anything is possible, Melia.” He closes his eyes to enjoy the warmth of her, even just touching her through clothing is good, a reminder of how far she has come since they first met, allowing this type of closeness at all. She does not reply so he rolls over in order to sit up and look at her face. Her eyes stare out into the middle distance for a second longer then turn to him and she smiles. He wonders if this swooping in his stomach will ever go away, and then promptly hopes not.

“Well, I did some research this afternoon and discovered something called _chimerism_.” Melia tells him.

“Alright, what is that?”

“Apparently some animals, including humans, can be born with two full sets of DNA in their bodies.”

“Right, everyone is, you know what you get from each parent.” Rafael closes his eyes again; Biology was never really his strong suit, he prefers the harder sciences.

“No, silly, that’s _half_. You get half your DNA from each parent.” Melia scratches a little harder at his scalp and he goes all boneless. She laughs at him then pushes away and climbs out of the bed and leaves the room. In a few seconds she is back with a notebook. “ _Chimerism_ is when a single organic entity is carrying two _full_ sets, or in theory more, of DNA. One of the ways it can happen is if twins cease to be twins while in the womb, and instead the two bodies merge and become a single entity.”

“Right, those are called Siamese twins.” Rafael sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed.

Melia chuckles, “Yeah, well, that’s what our grandparents called them. Now we refer to such biologically unique specimens as conjoined twins.”

“I stand corrected.” Rafael laughs. “This is getting in over my head, would you like me to take the dogs out?” He is not trying to be rude but he needs a bit of breathing room if he is going to keep his promise regarding _patience_.

Melia stifles a yawn. “Please, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Good then, I can get the linens for the couch on my own if you would like to go ahead and turn in for the night.”

“Why would you do that?” She switches on the lamp beside her bed. Her expression is clear, not playing, not flirting, but honest and straightforward.

Rafael freezes in the doorway, right in the middle of calling for the dogs. Hemlock has already joined him but Walson is looking at them all like they are nuts if they think he is moving. “I thought you wanted to take things slow…”

“Rafie, I’m no fool. I do want to take things slowly with you, is it okay if I enjoy your company? Then if we happen to fall asleep in here, would it be an issue for you?”

He gulps. Hemlock looks up at him from where he has sat down on the floor, his tail swishing across the wood. “Alright.” Rafael agrees, whistling for Walson as he gathers the leashes.

***

“Jesus.” Mike states as the breath in his lungs seems to be pulled out on strings. He even blanches a little, considering that when he moved out here from the inner city he never, ever, not one time ever dreamed he would see something like this. Another male victim, naked, tied between telephone poles that were erected at some point to serve as gate poles for the fence that runs the entire length of the abandoned farm’s field. Iris brings him a cup of something that is masquerading as coffee, the smell of which makes his stomach attempt to do some serious acrobatics. Mike shakes his head and Iris steps back, understanding without being told as she always does; he is half tempted to call her 'Radar' to see if he can get a rise out of her. 

The early morning darkness is silvering into blue. No stars are visible. Mike is thankful for a whole night’s rest in any case. He stands looking down at the ground, thinking of anything but what his next steps will be. He takes a deep breath and thanks whatever deities still remain in the sky that there this is not some busy thoroughfare packed full of family cars. The detective feels the weight of the rest of the town behind him as if all of those eyes are staring over his back, telling him he needs to _fix_ this, make it stop and make everything better.

He steels himself and looks back up at the victim. The same long gash about his neck that marked the others he can see even from fifteen feet up. However, this one has gashes about his torso that…

No, that cannot be possible.

The victim is _bleeding_.

“Christ on sausages. Paramedics, NOW!” Mike shouts and everyone around him snaps to attention. “I need a ladder, something…now! Right now!”

At that moment the local fire department's ladder truck comes screaming down the gravel driveway to stop right in front of them. Iris rushes over towards them, rapidly speaking with the chief in the front seat, red lights painting her face scarlet then black as they spin. The driver swings its back end around and within seconds the ladder is being deployed in order to get to the victim. Everything is chaos and confusion when an ambulance screams its admittance to this decidedly less than cheery party.

Mike rushes over to the end of the fire truck and shouts up to one of the firemen who quickly produces a large, gloved hand to help him up and over the fender. Mike clambers over then points up to the ladder, barely waiting for the fireman to nod before he is climbing it much faster than he would normally believe he could do it; at his age, crazy stunts like this are generally best left to the rookies, but this is too important right no and he would rather have the facts first hand rather than filtered through someone else's emotions. As much as he loathes this part of his job, it is of the utmost importance to get as much information out of the victim before he expires…no, shouldn’t think like that… _if_ he expires…as possible to find this perp who has finally made a mistake.

The spinning lights and murmuring voices coalesce into mismatched patches of chaos around him suddenly go quiet as he steps up onto the top rung of the ladder. One firefighter is supporting the man’s weight with strong arms around his waist while another is snipping at the wires around the pole holding his arms in place. Mike never gives a second thought as he steps in close to the man and yanks off the light jacket he grabbed that morning. He slides it over the bleeding man the best he can and manages to not flinch when the man coughs wetly; small flecks of blood pepper his swollen lips.

“Can you speak?” Mike asks in the softest, most urgent tones he is able under the circumstances. Most of him really just wants to scream and flail and lash out at the irrationality of the horrid ways humans have of killing each other.

There is a tiny, “Yes,” from the victim who is now resting his head against Mike’s shoulder.

“What do you remember?” Mike hates himself a little more with each question, but there really is no time to lose.

“Knife.” The man rasps. He coughs again. Mike knows enough to understand this may be his last chance.

“Who did this to you?” The man’s right arm is finally free and it swings as if dead against Mike’s side with a thump. The man does not move. “Please, can you remember…” he stops talking in order to press the man’s face closer to his ear, fully aware of the wet feeling of blood soaking into his button down.

“I…I can’t.” The last letter is pushed out between a jaw that is going numb. Mike feels the man’s eyelashes flutter against his neck.

“You have to try.” The detective states without much conviction.

“Black eyes…nothing…nothing in them.” The man swallows; his breathing is rapid and shallow from the chest heaving against Mike’s own. The firefighter has the man’s left arm free and now Mike is standing on the ladder with the victim’s full weight against him. The man gasps one more time and with the last exhale he will ever make on this earth says two words that make absolutely no sense to Mike.

“Laugh….hyena.”

Mike looks up to the firefighters and shakes his head. They clamber back to the ladder and between the three of them manage to get the man’s mangled body to the ground as quick and with as much respect as they are able. 

***

Mike sits in the passenger seat of the police car driven by Iris, following the ambulance as it bypasses the hospital and heads straight to the morgue. She leaves no quarter when she drives but on days like today he is glad that he can leave her to it without having to tell her what to do. The lights on the leading vehicle are no longer flashing, instead they are as quiet in the early summer day as the dead man inside. Mike is troubled that they could not save him, but in the same sense, at least the newest John Doe gave them something. It is a shame to be unable to even call him by his rightful name.

Iris occasionally casts a look over at Mike, though she is wise enough not to say anything more. She wants to offer him some sort of condolences but she is unsure of how to proceed.

For his part, Mike is going over and over the victim’s last words in his mind, trying desperately to make some sense of them. So far, he is coming up blank on everything. Maybe later tonight he can go back over the old files and see if anything matches. His eyes fall on his coppery smelling and starting to crust over blood-soaked shirt and he changes his mind midway. Perhaps tomorrow.

When they finally pull into the driveway at the morgue, they are met at the doors by Brad, who opens them up and allows the paramedics to bring the body in for safekeeping and an autopsy; Mike hopes that his name will be discovered soon and his family notified.

And that’s it!

Another connection between the victims.

Why has he not seen it before? Not a single one of them had any family living within fifty miles of Riverville; of course that could possibly just be a coincidence; however, like detectives the world over, he does not believe in coincidence. It could just be that the chosen victims possibly have that one other thing in common; perhaps that’s what makes them victims in the first place? He shakes his head, signs off on the sheet Brad produces so that the chain of custody on the body is not broken then gets back into the car.

“Young, would you mind dropping me off at my house?” Mike asks quietly, considering that if she will not he can always drive his own car back from the station.

“Sure, Sir.” Iris offers.

The detective leans back in the seat and closes his eyes for the twenty minute ride home, too exhausted to correct her this time.


	6. Give Me Your Heart

 

 

> _Hold out your heart and on it let the sun shine down_   
>  _Open your mind and through it let the wisdom pour_   
>  _Give me your word and I will give you all my trust_   
>  _Give me a sign and I will give you all my love_
> 
> _Gasoline (C) Jann Arden_

 

 

 

**Chapter 6:  Hold Out Your Heart**

The Hyena watches the police and fire department disassemble the masterpiece from a short distance away: enough to see the man go up on the ladder and take down the kill. The males and females in the noisy machines, taking away the Hyena’s perfect kills; who do these sheep think they are? It hides in the darkness beyond the reach of the emergency vehicles' disorienting lights.

The host whimpers a little, worrying about whether it will have to spend the night outside on the ground again. Pictures of skinny, naked, children hunched down against the frigid wind of the wicked tundra flash rapidly through the Hyena's memories. They taste like green.

The Hyena considers letting the host sleep outside, more for the reason of being closer to its kill, though since the kill has been removed by the _scavengers_ , the Hyena decides its host needs a little more. Together they turn down the gravel driveway, hands in pockets and head down. The host's greasy bangs fall forward to hide haunted eyes, a pitiful, wasted creature is no host for the glorious predator.

When they finally arrive at the local motel, there are no questions asked and so the Hyena produces a wad of cash. The host is too drained for any type of interaction. Quickly hiding the few blood-drenched bills from the top of the roll deep in a pocket, the man at the desk averts his eyes as he is paid without fanfare and hands out the key.

Once they are ensconced into the boringly typical room behind a locked door, the Hyena rests. The host bathes, speaks on the telephone and orders food. Real food, hot and comforting; not like the forgotten swill left in the last house: that was an anomaly, usually the Hyena takes better care but the redness would not fade and it has a mistake to make up for. There will be no puking tonight, no blacking out. There is no reason to lose a host when it only needs some looking after. The Hyena listens as its host speaks inwardly and the predator decides they are never going back to the house. Off-white happiness emanates from the host and they sit up for a while skimming through a few television channels and attempt to remember what it was like to be fully human in the time before the Hyena taught them how to survive on the street. They quietly absorb the rare companionship that is nothing like the pale imitation of life shown on the flickering screen. The Hyena knows well that life at the top of the food chain is more intense, the colors brighter,  _better_. 

Right after Mother left, Henry ran into a scuffle with a bunch of gang-banger wannabees. Unfortunately, the night ended only when Henry passed out from the punishments that the four much stronger men felt they needed to hand out to the confused, slightly-built and much younger person. Henry screamed as they beat and raped him in turn; once they discovered his awful secret they became animals; Henry was less than human—only to be used and then discarded under an overpass. With each smack of fists and flesh, Henry felt a little of himself die; the Hyena stepped in not long after and filled him up, gave him a purpose.

With tears in his eyes that did little to numb the pain of his battered body, Henry sat in the shadows listening to cars rumble overhead and watched as the Hyena took out its revenge on those men. Henry was baptized in blood on the night that everything changed for them, the night that someone made a stand for them; there had never been anything like this.

The feeling of flesh tearing and the screams of those way past innocent still fill the Hyena will prideful glee. Everything about that first kill was a step forward to the pure white path they are headed down now. Yellow daises taste like pudding.The scavengers may have moved the latest kills, but the acrid taste and coppery smell of them can never be erased from the Hyena's memories. Like the predator, those things will last _forever_.

Somewhere in the midst of the swirling silver and brass memories, real hot food arrives and the Hyena stirs enough to hand out several bills from the cash in the host's jean pockets. They need better clothes, and soon.

The predator smiles a little, knowing that only those most recently given in sacrifice to itself are the only ones that have been found. The Hyena is perfect and as long as it keeps its host healthy, it can never be caught. It closes its eyes against the comforting fullness of its mind and body. The exhausted host relaxes against a warm, furry flank. The Hyena will graciously allow it a long resting period to recover this time. A blue velvet recuperation to keep them in a puddle of yellow satin. Sleep is going to be dazzling neon orange this night and the host closes its eyes and for the first time in weeks sleeps through the night that soon becomes four. The Hyena falls into carnation bliss and periwinkle baby's breath.

***

Melia opens her eyes and peers into the golden wash of new sunlight filtering through the sheer curtains covering the windows in her bedroom. The sound of birdsong and cars passing by is muffled; for once her heart seems to be at peace. She closes her eyes again then reaches out with one hand, meaning to tangle it in dog fur as she always does but comes up with nothing, just the smooth feeling of her sheet. In her half-aware state, she moves her hand a little farther out, thinking that maybe Hemlock is stretched out vertically across the bed instead of horizontally when she encounters skin way too smooth to belong to either of her dogs.

Her eyes fly open as she turns her head to see Rafael’s chocolate brown ones twinkling in her direction. “ _Buenos dias mi encantador_.” He says softly as if he fears speaking louder with break the comfortably warm atmosphere that surrounds them.

For a few seconds, Melia’s lungs forget how to take in oxygen. Every muscle in her body goes very, very still as he focuses on her face. He moves slowly to gently cup her cheek with one hand. She smiles warmly and he grins back. Just as she starts to reply, there is the creak of bedsprings and the dogs hurl themselves up onto the bed and in between them they share a laugh before starting the day.

***

Melia and Rafael spend the morning walking through the neighborhood with the dogs at heel. Melia introduces Rafael to several of the neighbors; including Mr. Blanchard who gives her a funny little eyebrow wiggle in return. She feels herself blushing and turns away from Rafael. They give their good-byes to Mr. Blanchard after Melia tells him that she is thoroughly enjoying the book. The old man shakes Rafael’s hand and claps the taller man’s shoulder with his free hand.

“Take care of her, son, she’s a good’un.” Mr. Blanchard’s eyes sparkle with joy. “If I was about forty years younger…” He smiles and his dentures are so clean they catch the warm rays of the late morning sunshine; it lights up his entire face. As they turn away from Mr. Blanchard’s white washed picket fence, Rafael takes Melia's hand in his.

“What’s next?” He asks her as he watches Hemlock do his best to point at a squirrel. The squirrel looks completely at ease even though the big black mutt is staring at him with purpose. As they pass under the lowest branch of the tree that the squirrel is in, it chitters at them in defense. Hemlock barks and Walson whines at him as if to say he is interrupting the whole peaceful day by barking at an idiotic squirrel like an idiot. Melia laughs at the animals and Rafael feels his heart swoop a little. He squeezes her hand in his, marveling at this closeness he is now allowed. Her small fingers tangle with his and for a moment he truly believes he could leap into the air and fly.

They walk along a wooded path beneath trees that are bursting into bloom. It is an idyllic scene; one that cannot help but lift the souls of even the most despairing of hearts. A small square park opens up around them, picturesque and complete with flowers and a cottontail hijacking it across back corner of the well-manicured grass as fast as her little haunches will carry her. For a moment, Rafael studies the spot where the rabbit flung itself into the trees because he could almost swear he saw something move in the shadows beyond the edge of the park.

“Tell me about work, Rafie. You never talk about it.” Melia insists with a smile that causes instant amnesia to anything else.

“I don’t talk about it because it is boring.” He laughs.

“No, you have that backwards. It’s my job that’s boring, yours is interesting.”

Rafael watches as Melia’s brown hair turns glossy as they walk back out into the sun from under the trees. He really wants to touch it. There are more important things to discuss right now than his dull nine to five job.

“Melia, what are we?” The smallness of his voice irritates him a little, but he urgently needs an answer.

Melia stops and Walson plonks down at her feet so she leans down to give him a scratch behind the ears, considering the question and what her answer might be. She has been so busy trying to keep the past at bay that sometimes she forgets that Rafael is a man, a young man, maybe even a man with needs. He has been awfully good to her, never pushing, never prying, allowing their relationship to build slowly and naturally. Certainly there is more between them, though even now after all she has told him, she is reflexively nervous about their friendship becoming something _more_. Melia straightens up and steps one step closer to him.

“I’m not sure, Rafie.” His expression clouds over a little. “No, please don’t take that the wrong way. We are friends, right?”

He nods. If he does not say it now, he probably never will. “Though I have to admit I sometimes feel something a little stronger for you.” Rafael slowly reaches out to tangle his fingers into her ponytail and lets the silky strands of it fall over his knuckles.

“You do?” She seems honestly surprised even after waking up next to him and the meaning of _mi encantador_ slowly begins to sink in.

They both pause for a moment and watch as two of the more mobile seniors from town jog pass them in matching T-shirts and shorts, even down to their running shoes. Melia gives them a wave and they wave back at her simultaneously beaming bright smiles in her direction.

“Lila and Jean.” Melia explains.

Rafael nods again. He seems to be doing that a lot today. Somehow they have wandered to a white metal bench. Rafael sits first, Hemlock dropping to his belly on the ground beside him; he pats the empty space next to him. Melia stills for few seconds before joining him. Walson’s leash is long enough that he can get comfortable next to his buddy. He settles then reaches over and nips at one of Hemlock’s ears. Melia laughs as she watches them. “Probably telling him off for barking at the squirrel.”

When she turns back to Rafael, his smoldering gaze can no longer be ignored. “Rafie,” she says softly as she lays her hand on his. “I think I would like us to be more than friends. I am sorry that it has taken me so long to get to this point. I just….” She hesitates and he tightens his fingers around hers, trying to get her to understand that he is there and has every intention of _always_ being there for her.

With that tiny movement that tells of much bigger things Melia visibly relaxes. She moves closer to him so that their thighs are touching and holds up the handle of Walson’s leash. Rafael takes it. He twists around and lightly knots the leashes around the back of the bench then casually drops his arm over her shoulders. Melia gives him a smile as she leans against him, her body fitting exactly like a puzzle piece under his arm.

“I could get spoiled by this.”

Rafael smiles into her hair and kisses the top of her head. For an instant there is the slightest bit of tension in her body but it is gone almost as quickly as it appears.

***

While they are sitting on the back porch with iced tea glasses in their hands there is a certain tension between the two of them that is no longer easily ignored. Melia pats Rafael on the shoulder as she moves past him towards the kitchen. He grabs her hand with his and uses her forward momentum to pull her backward into his lap, facing him. She lets out the breath that she is unaware that she has been holding and simply lets him lead.

Rafael’s eyes are a shade of brown that Melia feels like she could get lost in because something snaps between them in that second because they move together slowly until their lips touch. The next thing she realizes is that she is moaning into his mouth and his hand is firmly planted on the nape of her neck, fingers not quite tight enough to stop her from moving away, but not exactly pinning her to the spot, either. It is a wonderful feeling of being _wanted_ by someone else.

Someone that was not him…

Melia pulls back out of their kiss for a moment in order to compose her thoughts. The last thing she wants is a memory attempting to wedge itself between them now. Rafael rubs the back of her neck soothingly, gently tugging at the hairs there that have fallen out of her ponytail. Even after sharing a bed, this overwhelming feeling of intimacy she never expected; so shiny and new, so fragile like damp butterfly wings.

“God Rafie. I didn’t know.”

“You do now.” He cautiously meets her gaze with his own. How can he tell her that he wants to protect her, to always be there to hold her, even when she is locked in the claws of a nightmare?

“Can I have another one of those?” Their faces are much closer now; her whispers puff gently on his lips.

Once again, he nods, gazing at her as if she is made of glass that will shatter into dust and be blown away by the breeze if he is too rough or moves too suddenly. Something warm and pleasant has curled up midway between his stomach and lungs. When she takes the initiative and leans in to kiss him again, he can feel it purr.

When they part this time, they do not move very far. Melia is still staring into his eyes as if she is searching for the meaning of life and his hand is still parked on the back of her neck. Everything between them has changed in this short amount of time, yet, in the same sense, nothing has really changed at all: it has simply grown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 25 March 2014: minor edits made


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am leaving my own short note here at the beginning because I still haven't figured that part out yet. So you can ignore it or comment, that will not hurt my feelings :D

_{Something happens here with Mike. He needs to find something that the Hyena has slipped up on, something left behind.}_

***

 

**Author's Note:**

> This one is all mine. Some of you fanpeople out there will see some common threads here with other fics I've written. It is all intentional, I assure you!


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